


in every note, the endless tapes of every word you wrote

by janie_tangerine



Series: jb week 2017 [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (actually metal band but there's no tag for that), (somewhat), Alcohol Withdrawal, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Concerts, Epistolary, F/M, Jaime/Brienne Appreciation Week, Musicians, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Recovery, Rehabilitation, Songwriting, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, in which the author is really writing totally ridiculous AUs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 11:30:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12298350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: “Anyway, I’m – I’ll just go. Remember what I told you about that backstage pass.”Tyrion rolls his eyes. “Jaime, you’ve told me twenty times. At some point this unknown fan you’ve never somehow met but sent you uplifting letters in rehab is going to show up with a piece of paper you wrote and signed saying they should be given a backstage pass. If they show up before the show begins they should go straight to the pit, if not they’ll be sent straight to your room. And the note was written on some paper from the clinic’s pad. Did I forget anything?”





	in every note, the endless tapes of every word you wrote

**Author's Note:**

> OH HELLO SO I ACTUALLY DID MANAGE TO DO SEVEN THINGS FOR JB WEEK EVEN IF I'M IN THE NICK OF TIME - this was supposed to be for day six, _sapphires_ , so hey, CATCH UP! Anyway, uh, this happened because of an anon on tumblr who happily goes like,
> 
> _au in which Jaime is in a metal band and Brienne is at one of their concerts and for some reason they end up meeting after it_
> 
> and I went like OKAY I DIG THIS and... then.... this.... happened. It's not exactly THAT but I think it fits the bill XD also: the author most probably spent a lot of her time in high school on rock music forums (not *metal* but shhh) and yes, the forum here referenced is basically a fusion of my favorite place to go back then plus westeros.org, sorry not sorry.
> 
> warnings: the notes should be exhaustive but like, Jaime's in rehab for alcohol addiction for a good two thirds of this fic. Handle with care if the subject is not your thing.
> 
> Other than that: literally nothing belongs to me except the plot, they belong to GRRM (lol I wish they were mine) and I know it's not very *metal* but the title is from a Lucinda Williams song which was way more suited than anything metal I actually listen to, so. /o\ *vaguely saunters downwards and goes to post the seventh fic*

“You know, you _do_ look like you could throw up at any moment. Should I remind you that’s _not_ the right attitude for, oh, your _comeback concert_?”

Jaime, for what’s not the first time in the last year, _really_ wants to go find some goddamned alcohol.

Except that he didn’t check himself into rehab and spent _months_ there to fall off the wagon because Cersei _somehow_ got his number?

“Tyrion, you’re an absolute motivator. And _how_ did my sister find out my new number after I went through great pains to change it?”

At _that_ , Tyrion does look somewhat apologetic. “I’m looking into it,” he says. “All the staff is under severe orders to not even let her through if she tries to contact you or the social media office or _whatever_ but I have a feeling she might’ve gone through other ways.”

“Such as?”

“She probably asked Father, who asked aunt Genna, who asked Lancel, who might have looked into Addam’s phone when he had lunch with them yesterday. He told me he saw Lancel fiddling with it and he took it from him a moment later, that’s how I knew.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Jaime groans, “now I have to change it again. Fuck this noise, hasn’t she gotten the drill?”

“I’m afraid she hasn’t. What did she want?”

“I closed the call in her face after I realized it was her and it was the usual drill, I didn’t let her get to the point. Please tell me you might have a clue,” he sighs, looking at himself in the changing room’s mirror. Other than a few silver hairs he has sadly grown out while in rehab, he still cuts his damned figure, he thinks, which is a good thing given that he has to sing in public for the first time in a year and a half in two hours tops.

“I think she’s _very_ displeased that you dropped _our_ label.”

“Ah, _that_. Well, she can choke. I’m not going back there if she paid me thrice.”

“I _know_ , and you’d be entirely right to. Still, I don’t think she understood that you’re not interested.”

“I understood she wasn’t when I had to go home to grab my things and she offered me _some wine_ to celebrate.”

“ _What_?”

“Yeah, _my point exactly_ ,” Jaime scoffs – figures that he goes into rehab _also_ because his drinking had spiraled completely fucking out of control, and good thing he never let anyone convince him to try heavier stuff than alcohol, and she offers him _wine_. Good thing that he left rehab with fairly clear ideas.

Also thanks to –

He shakes his head – he’s gonna deal with _that_ when the show is done and over.

“Shit,” Tyrion says, “and to think I spent a month making sure all the alcohol in _my_ house was hidden.”

“I’m touched, but as long as you don’t, like, _offer me a drink_ and throw the glass in my face I can handle it. Well, she actually threw it on the wall after I said no.”

“… _Never mind_ ,” Tyrion says, “please steer clear of the premises from now on.”

“I changed my number for a goddamned reason. Anyway, I guess I should go talk to the others and see if there are problems or _whatever_ , I don’t want to start late on top of it.”

“Aren’t you the only musician in existence who worries about being on time?”

“Fuck’s sake, given how much these people paid for the _exclusive ticket to the exclusive come back show for just five thousand people_ which I absolutely _didn’t_ approve of, the least I owe them is to show up on time.”

“I know,” Tyrion sighs, “but it’s not my fault if both Father and Cersei pretty much paid off any place larger than that to _not_ host you, and when life throws you lemons you have to make lemonade and capitalize.”

“Fair,” Jaime agrees. He can’t blame Tyrion for having spun it like _that_ – surely it’s better for the image and the money and everything, and since he’s putting his own damned money into starting the new label he can’t afford to lose too much of it.

At least he had bargained so that they’d stream the concert online for a minimal feel – is there was something he _loved_ about touring was playing in front of a lot of people. That’s why he’s in a damned _metal_ band – if he had wanted to play small venues with a small audience he’d have become a fucking folk singer.

“Anyway, I’m – I’ll just go. Remember what I told you about that backstage pass.”

Tyrion rolls his eyes. “Jaime, you’ve told me _twenty_ times. At _some_ point this unknown fan you’ve _never_ somehow met but sent you _uplifting_ letters in rehab is going to show up with a piece of paper _you_ wrote and signed saying they should be given a backstage pass. If they show up before the show begins they should go straight to the pit, if _not_ they’ll be sent straight to your room. And the note was written on some paper from the clinic’s pad. Did I forget anything?”

“You didn’t,” Jaime confirms. “Well, okay then. See you later.”

“I’ve got things covered, just go to your soundcheck.”

He nods and leaves the changing room – he’s still not properly dressed, but he’ll do it later.

And as he walks towards the stage, where he can hear Sandor and Bronn bickering about _something_ , he wonders if he’s not _really_ doing something stupid with the backstage pass, but –

This was his third stint in rehab, and he _knows_ it worked out better than the others also because of those damned letters.

 

**Then**

 

_At least,_ he thinks, taking in his room for the next six months _, this time I bloody chose it._

 It is a small consolation, honestly, but at least he isn’t here because his father pretty much strong-armed him into doing it, or because Cersei told him that _there was a limit to how much he could get away with when it came to the lifestyle_ , and both of those times it was in places of their choosing, not his.

To no one’s surprise (or at least, not to Tyrion’s, nor his bandmates’), his previous stints had gone down the drain in the span of three months, not that either his father or Cersei understood that offering him vodka martinis to celebrate that he just left the aforementioned rehab was counter-productive.

As in. At least both times inspired him enough to give him material for another three records, which also got his band excellent reviews – he figures that being famous for _introspective_ lyrics in his field has to mean for something.

Still, this time –

Gods, this time has to be the right one. He chose the place – not one of the famous, hip centers where most attendants have more zeroes on their bank account than they can care for and where every psychiatrist seems to be bored at you because he heard your famous person drama ten hundred times already. He picked a small center, in the middle of bloody nowhere, with qualified but young staff, and the few people who were seasoned professionals were all qualified to hell and back and worked there in addition to teaching university, and where he was assured no one famous had ever set foot in.

And maybe the first two times he hadn’t realized how bad things had gotten and he had only gone to make Cersei and his father happy, now –

Now that he realized that he couldn’t write a fucking line anymore because he wasn’t sober half of the damned time, that his sister definitely cheated him out of a fair amount of earnings and that their father actually agreed to it, that after all she hadn’t really thought they were the only two people _made for each other_ in the whole world (or she wouldn’t have married Rhaegar Targaryen in the most pompous and hyped wedding on the _Sun_ since Prince William, or _something_ , and that was after the damned accident that sent him on his worst drinking spiral and she never bothered to even come to the hospital) and that if he wanted a career he had to get a fucking grip, well, he needs this to be the stint that works.

He’s so _not_ going to think about how he almost threw up on stage at their latest concert, and good thing that drunk or not he’s never going to forget lyrics that he wrote himself, and he’s so not going to think about how she called him saying she had something urgent to discuss with him and he had to come home _now_ , that was three days before the wedding, and how he did even if he was drunk.

He looks at his right arm. Good thing that he never fretted right-handed and that he could afford a really good prosthesis that they assured him would allow him to use a pick, which he still hasn’t tried for now, but he hopefully will while he’s here. He has time to occupy, after all.

Still, at least she could have come visit in the hospital, since he only drove drunk because she insisted he had to come _at once._

The room is small but neat – there’s a desk, a few bookshelves already filled with some novels he had delivered from home before he arrived, a wardrobe, flowers on the windowsill, and no plug entrances anywhere.

He’s honestly relieved that he had to give up his phone for the time being – maybe it’s a good thing that if someone wants to talk to him, they have to visit.

The nearby bathroom is large-sized with both a tub and a shower, which he figures he would need given what he’s there for.

He goes back and starts unpacking his stuff – he only brought some clothes, mostly old jeans and shirts he only ever wears around the house.

Then the nurse knocks.

“Mr. Lannister?”

He looks at her and the first thing he thinks is, _fuck if she’s tall_. She definitely has an inch on him, which feels kind of weird given that he’s fairly tall himself. She’s dressed in white, neat scrubs which don’t hide long, muscular legs and a flat chest with large shoulders. The rest of her is fairly plain when not downright unattractive – large face, large lips, uneven freckles all over her face, straw-blonde hair tied back and a nose that has been broken at least a few times. She does have very pretty eyes, though. Large, blue and with exceedingly long eyelashes. The tag on the scrubs reads _Brienne_. He figures that at least she has a pretty name.

“That’d be me, unless you got the wrong room,” he smirks. She doesn’t seem too impressed at his horrible attempt at humor, but then again he also has a left hand that was visibly trembling and he’s a few days away at most from a long session of throwing up, so he isn’t firing on all cylinders.

She clears his throat. “I don’t think I have,” she says. “Is the room to your liking or can we change things around?”

“The room’s fine. I didn’t pick this place because I wanted golden water taps in the bathroom.”

She hands him a small folder. “Very well. That – that’s your schedule, Doctor Baratheon tailored it based on what you told him but he says that if you feel like it’s too much or too little, you can talk to him at your appointment tomorrow morning and adjust it. Then there’s a, uh, list of activities you might want to join or not, at your leisure.”

He opens the folder and goes straight to the second sheet.

“ _Monopoly tourneys_ on Friday Afternoons? Really?”

She shrugs. “A game lasts long enough to keep your mind off any other problems for half the day, or so I’m told.”

“Why, isn’t it for the staff, too?”

“Not really.”

Was she… sort of blushing while looking at him?

He decides he’s probably making it up.

“Anyway, those are optional. The third sheet has the times breakfast, lunch and dinner – those are not negotiable, but if you happen to feel poorly you can of course eat here –, plus any other urgent information that you might need. If anyone wants to visit you, they can come on Saturday for the entire day. You can receive mail, but we only gather it all at once on Monday and mail out any replies on Tuesday. If you need a phone call, you can clear it with Mr. Seaworth, he’s the head of nursing staff. Do you have any further questions?”

“You’ve been exceedingly clear,” he says, not telling her that he _did_ look up all of that information on their website before booking an appointment with Baratheon. “Two things – I was planning on, well, writing some music, if inspiration strikes. Would that be a problem? I’d get my brother to send me the instruments.”

“Well,” she says, “not _here_ because it might disturb the others next door, but we can certainly arrange it somewhere no one else would hear you.”

“Fair. Last thing – I suppose you’re the one I should call if I need something?”

“Yes,” she says. “Of course, if you’d rather switch –”

“Why the hell would I want to switch?” He asks. That’s bloody weird. She seems competent and she hasn’t done anything that might make him want to switch.

She blushes harder. “Uhm, a lot of the people in here would prefer to call on someone that’s – well, men prefer men and women prefer women.” He can hear there’s more to it, but she doesn’t tell him, so he doesn’t push.

“Well, I can’t give a fuck for that kind of bullshit, life’s too short for it and I haven’t found a contract to at least three bands that were all or mostly women because I banged their singer. Don’t look _that_ disturbed, I didn’t, I just thought they had talent. Anyway, you’ve been exhaustive. Do I get to ban visitors?”

She shrugs. “Of course. It’s _your_ supposed time to recover, no one here wants to hinder it if you think some people visiting might do it.”

Gods, he’s so glad his father or Cersei are not paying off anyone here. “Right. Then if my sister or my father show up, I don’t even want to know they’ve been here. Any other family members that aren’t my brother or my cousin Addam should be asked first if they plan on talking about either my sister or my father, and if they are, then I’m not interested. Anyone else is fine.”

Not that _anyone else_ bar Tyrion, his bandmates and maybe Aunt Genna would give two fucks.

“Very well,” she says, “duly noted. Neither is getting in if they do show up. If you need anything, just dial 1 on the phone on your bed – it only works from your room to the offices.”

Then she leaves and he figures he’ll go to sleep – he arrived late in the evening and it was going to be a damned long six months, and according to his schedule, tomorrow he has to talk to Baratheon first thing in the morning, attend some group therapy session in the afternoon where he’s free to not talk but has to be present, and have a medical check-up with someone else just after talking to Baratheon, because of course if it were for him he’d have gone cold turkey and be done with it in a week, but the other times it hadn’t stuck, so maybe discussing it with a doctor first might be a better idea.

_\--_

He checks himself in on a Thursday.

On Friday evening, Baratheon has spent a full hour listening to him rant, then he prescribes him some light medication to be confirmed by the medical check-up and tells him they’ll see each other on Monday and to please let the nurse know if he was feeling like shit (Jaime had asked why he’d assumed he wouldn’t, Baratheon had sighed and said, _I’ve heard you talking for one hour_ , I know you wouldn’t, and Jaime had to give to him – he was right). 

The check-up is entirely less terrible than he fears – the doctor in charge of it, Robb Stark, is definitely young and maybe not as seasoned as Baratheon, but he makes up for it in enthusiasm and hasn’t made him feel like he was being judged all the goddamned time. He concludes that bar the fact that he was obviously heading into alcohol withdrawal he’s in remarkably good health all things considered, confirms the medication Stannis had prescribed, writes him a note to give at the mess hall and in the nurse’s office with a list of food and drinks his room should always be stocked with, and recommends him to drink as much fluids as he could even if he isn’t getting cravings. 

“You know,” Jaime tells him, “you aren’t nearly half an asshole as the people who do your job in the fancy places.”

Stark laughs. “Well, case is that I’ve got a boyfriend whose entire family had a problem with drinking bar his sister, I know how hard it is. You don’t need people who’re supposed to help you being assholes on top of that. By the way, my sister’s a fan – you think you could sign her a record?”

“Gladly,” he says – that’d be the least.

He goes to the therapy session. He takes his meds.

On Saturday, Tyrion shows up with Bronn, who quickly assures him that he looks like shit but at least it was for a good reason, and should they start auditions to replace Whent?

Jaime considers it – their drummer left after his accident, not that Jaime is going to miss him. The man is an arse and he only got in because back when he was setting up the band he was in his last year of college, they couldn’t find a damned drummer and the man showed up at their tenth audition and he was the only one who actually did fit and didn’t go completely off-key all the damned time. Sure, given that he’s stuck there for half a year, and given what he’s planning to do – as in, ditch a famous label to found his own – he doesn’t know how many people would line up to join his band out of every other in existence, but he does want to go back to music when he gets out.

If he ever writes a song again, that goes unsaid.

“Yes,” he says. “I trust you to pick someone decent. Just warn them we’re not doing anything until I’m out.”

“I’m sure they’d know,” Bronn says, and he goes to bed feeling slightly more optimistic about this entire deal.

Then there comes the mail on Monday.

  _\--_

 Brienne brings him a fairly high stack, and for a moment he thinks, _I hope Tyrion didn’t arrange to bring me fanmail because I really can’t deal with that right now_ , but then he realizes that no, none of that is.

But he hasn’t looked at his mail in a month, so it makes sense he’d get a bunch of it.

He takes the pile and starts sorting through it – it’s five in the afternoon, he has nothing on his precious schedule and he does need a distraction, and he doesn’t want to meet anyone else in this place until at least he goes through the first week of not fucking drinking.

The first ten letters are bills, but all of that shit gets paid automatically from his bank account, so he just trashes them. The next is from Taena Merryweather, Cersei’s main manager, asking him if he _really_ wants to rescind the contract. He sighs and puts it on the side – he’ll go ask Seaworth for his phone call later and call Tyrion to tell him to just handle all of that shit instead of forwarding it to him, he can’t handle worrying about that right now. 

He goes through a few letters asking him if he wants to renew his magazine subscriptions to _Metal Hammer_ , _Terrorizer_ and _Decibel_ – yes, he should, so he puts them on the side to fill up the form later.

And then there is the last letter, and then he realizes he should have warned them that he didn’t want mail from Cersei, either –

Though admittedly, there isn’t a return address. It’s just her handwriting, and how would they know?

For a moment, he considers trashing it, but then that horrible part of himself who could never deny her anything tells him not to, and he curses himself as he opens the damned thing and reads it –

He’s _very_ proud of himself for letting it fall on the ground, grabbing the phone, dialing _one_ and not grabbing his jacket, running out and hitch a ride for the nearest liquor shop, which was his first instinct when he read that damned letter.

Brienne is in his room a minute later or so, and she sends him a fairly worried look.

“Mr. Lannister? How can I help you?”

_Fuck_ , he’s really grateful that she hasn’t bothered asking him if he’s feeling well or not, since it must be obvious that he’s _not_ all right.

“See that letter on the ground?”

“Yes.”

“Take it, read enough to memorize the handwriting and please trash anything else that comes from the same person and – just throw it out, I can’t even look at it.”

“All right,” she says, glancing at it. He can see that she’s not liking what she’s reading, but he doubts she even reads it all – she folds it in four, then tears it apart and leaves the room for one moment, probably throwing it away in the trash bin outside the door instead of the one in his own.

He thinks he could fucking kiss her for realizing he didn’t want it anywhere near him, not even torn up in pieces.

“Done,” she says. “What else can I do?”

“I –” He doesn’t know how to say it without feeling like a goddamned failure not even a week into the goddamned program, but he should probably just tell her. “I’m feeling like I could drink an entire bottle of vodka straight from the neck and I really don’t think I should overdo with the medication,” he admits, not quite looking at her. Shit. He feels like a goddamned failure, but at least she knows the problem. And he’s sure he should be able to handle it, they gave him an entire pamphlet and he’s read the same drivel in his previous stints, but right now he can’t think about anything because _why is she presuming she even has any right to_ –

He’s thrown out of his trail of thoughts when Brienne hands him a half-liter water bottle, already opened.

“You might want to drink it. Slowly. Do you mind if I look inside the cupboard or didn’t you put anything in there?”

“No, why?”

“It’s where they usually leave food if Robb says you should have a few snacks around.”

She opens the cupboard – right. There’s a fair amount of food in there, he hadn’t noticed anyone putting it there but it’s not like he felt really hungry these last few days, the stuff he got in the cafeteria was good enough. He drinks some of the water while she rummages through the whole lot and hands him a dark chocolate bar.

“Eat that slowly,” she says, “it should help with the immediate problem. And drink that entire thing, it’ll make you feel like you _did_ drink something. And – sorry about that letter.”

“What – _why_?”

“You said you didn’t want mail from your sister,” she says, apologetically.

“You couldn’t have known it was her, I didn’t show you her bloody handwriting,” he sighs, taking a bite from the chocolate bar. Right. At least his stomach isn’t feeling as queasy anymore.

“Nonetheless, I’ll double check. Uh, I was wondering, if I happen to get letters without return addresses should I check them before? Of course it’d be a privacy breach, but –”

He gets her point and honestly, it seems like a splendid idea, in case Cersei wises up and starts writing the letters on a damned computer instead.

“Just check the signature, I guess. If it’s her, trash it, same for my father, otherwise I’m fine with it. Thank you.”

“No need, it’s my job. How is it going?”

“Better,” he admits – he’s at his second bite of chocolate bar, he still kind of wants a drink but _not so much_ and he thinks he’s got it under control. “You can go, I don’t want to keep you if you have rounds or whatever. I’ll deal.”

“All right, but call if there’s the need. This is already a hard time, there’s no need to make it harder on yourself,” she says, and then leaves, closing the door softly behind her.

Well, that’s a change from the previous clinics he went to where the drivel was that they _had_ to get clean quickly and it was all their fault for falling into it anyway.

\--

The next week is, admittedly, _shitty_.

He tries to write something – not music, he’s nowhere near there yet and he couldn’t begin to try for it when his left hand shakes half of the time – and it’s complete trash.

Of course it is. He hasn’t had a decent inspiration when it came to lyrics since Cersei got married, which is why their last record with his father’s label was a greatest hits, and he’s – he wrote about _his_ own goddamned problems most of the time and right now he’s too tied up in them to be objective and get a halfway decent song out of them. Never mind that he doubts people would want to hear anything of the fairly ugly thoughts passing through his head these days.

His trashcan fills with torn pieces of paper and he takes his medication, goes to therapy, doesn’t talk at the group meetings, and he’s so desperate that on Friday he goes to the Monopoly tourney, which he proceeds to win through his usual, proved tactic (buy one lot of any color, then sell it at ten times the price or not – it makes everyone else go bankrupt without fail). At least _that_ , he thinks as he pockets the cherry chocolate bar that was the prize for whoever won it.

On Saturday, only Tyrion drops by. Jaime tells him to have his guitar sent over in a couple of weeks, maybe by _then_ he’ll be able to at least practice if he doesn’t come up with songs in the first place.

On Monday, Brienne shows up with a significantly smaller stack of letters, then clears her throat.

“These are the ones your brother left when he arrived,” she says, “but – it looks like there’s one fanmail that ended up in the whole lot. It has a PA box return address. I had a look at it and it’s definitely not your father or sister, but if you’d rather not have it –”

“Is it positive or negative stuff?”

He _did_ get some fan letters from people outraged that he hasn’t gone through his then-postponed last leg of the tour after being discharged rather than checking into rehab, as if he could go on tour given the state of his hand, and he’s not in the mood for that kind of drama.

“Positive,” she says.

“What the hell,” he says, “leave it. At least some compliments won’t hurt the general mood.”

He leaves the fan letter for last, after the few bills, confirmations that his magazine subscriptions went through and other useless stuff. There’s no name on the return address, just a _B. T._ that could be anything, but at least it’s not… his sister.

He opens the letter.

It’s hand-written. He has a feeling it’s definitely a woman, from the penmanship, though that’s what _he_ is assuming. Strange – his fanmail is almost never from women.

Well then. He figures he should just read it.

 

_Dear Jaime_ , it starts, _I kind of feel ridiculous doing this – I’m kind of too old for fan letters, at least according to the general opinion – and I don’t even know if you’ll read this, but I have read that you’re going through a horrible time these days and I know the difference a few compliments can make, when you’re feeling down._  

_It goes unsaid that_ Kingslayer _are my favorite band, but – they’ve been for a long time, since I was in high school (the right time to write fan letters, I suppose, but I never had the guts to do it), and I used to listen to your songs all the time and I still do on my commute. It’s been ten years but they never really failed me, and while on the semi-official forum people are complaining about every dumb thing they could complain about –_

 

Oh, _right._ The _kingslayers_. _org_ forum – a fan’s been running it since they got a record deal and since they never bothered with an official one on their website, they gave him their blessing to keep on running it and get the traffic.

Too bad it’s also filled with assholes who think he owes them one record every year or so.

 

_– I am just happy you’re not quitting music altogether. I think you have a gift for what you do, and if I didn’t have your songs I probably would have been miserable for a good part of my time at least in high school if not later. Even if you did quit I’d have been grateful for the music you gave us in the first place, but knowing you aren’t is really uplifting to hear, and I wish you all the best in your recovery and with the new label. Honestly, that was the most interesting thing in that interview you gave_ Metal Hammer _– if the one you had was making you feel stifled creatively then I can’t wait to hear the new stuff._  

_Best wishes and sorry again if this sounded really awkward._

_B._

 

Jaime can’t fucking believe what he just read.

So he reads it twice.

Fuck it, someone in his fanbase is actually _happy_ about his life choices? He puts the letter on the table, staring down at it and feeling _indeed_ like it turned his day around – honestly, knowing _someone_ actually wants to hear his new stuff but isn’t asking it of him _right now_ is honestly uplifting, and it might be that before in the day he realized that it’s not going to be long before he has to spill to Baratheon about his sister (he’ll have to deal with it sooner or later) and that he’s currently feeling like he _could_ do with a beer or ten and he’s trying to quench it by eating through another of his dark chocolate bars as slowly as he can –

He doesn’t know what the hell he’s thinking as he grabs a fresh piece of paper and a pen and starts writing a reply – his handwriting post-accident is of course atrocious, so he does it in all caps. It’s slightly less terrible.

 

_Dear B.,_ he writes, _there’s no such thing as being too old for fanmail or whatever. Actually, reading your letter kind of turned my shitty day around, so thanks for that. I’m glad to hear you’re excited about the new music, hopefully in a year or so I’ll have more than vague ideas. Sorry if this is terribly short but I’m still getting used to writing with the left – still, thank you very much. I swear it’s really appreciated. And it didn’t sound awkward at all ;)_  

_J._

 

He folds it, then whe Brienne comes back later to ask if he needs anything he asks her if he can please mail an answer back.

She looks surprised for a moment, then says that of course she will, and brings the letter away.

\--

The next Monday –

He has a reply.

“I figured you might want it, since you did reply first,” Brienne tells him.

“Sure, leave it. I think this particular fanmail can stay for good,” he says, shrugging.

He opens it before the others – he’s also in a particularly shitty mood because he hasn’t slept properly for the last five days and he _is_ going to discuss Cersei next week at latest, he _knows,_ and he kind of wants to die inside at the prospect, though at least he hasn’t gotten _as many_ cravings as he could have.

 

_Dear Jaime,_

  _I honestly wasn’t expecting a reply and I’m beyond excited to have even gotten one – and I wasn’t expecting a novel, anyway. It’s great to hear that I somehow helped out even a tiny bit, especially when they happen to be my favorite musician. I really hope this works out right for you – I sort of work in the field when it comes to addictions and I know how hard it is to kick it. But – well, some of your lyrics might have been inspirational when it came to kicking a few bad habits when it came to myself, if it’s of any help knowing. Also, I’m really relieved to hear I didn’t sound too awkward – apparently I missed out on the writing-fanletters-at-fourteen phase that all teenage girls are supposed to have, so I guess I was hoping I wouldn’t sound like one._

  _Best wishes for everything,_

_B._

 

Oh, so she _is_ in the field – he figures it’s part of the reason why she’s not being judging or anything. The sensible part of him says that he should end it here, but –

But the curious part of him _doesn’t_ , and honestly, in between therapy, more group meetings where he feels like shit hearing what other people have to say about their personal terrible experiences, knowing he’s not leaving until he has _all_ his shit straightened out and that’s a _lot_ of it –

How bad can it be to have some harmless correspondence with someone who’s _not_ making him feel like shit or reminding him of all the crap he has to deal with the moment he’s out?

He writes a response.

 

_Dear B.,_

  _Well, you’re definitely not coming off as awkward, believe me. And you did help out, really. I mean, it’s nice to be reminded that whatever music you put out in the world means something for people other than you. That said, I’m kind of curious as to what you mean with, kicking a few bad habits? I’m just saying it because maybe it means I could take my own advice, but you don’t have to share if you don’t want to. And be glad you missed the teenage fanletters phase, most of those are unreadable in the first place…_

  _J._

 

\--

At the next batch of mail he gets, he admittedly looks for the mysterious _B._ ’s letter first thing – he’s feeling like _utter_ shit, he might have fucking _cried_ while talking to Baratheon in the morning because he did finally get around to talk about his sister, or at least a good part of the issues he has with her, and at some point he realized he couldn’t keep it in anymore, and he was such a wreck by the end of it that Baratheon told him to get lunch and dinner in his room and skip the group talk for a week.

At least he feels like he’d _vomit_ if he was anywhere near anything alcoholic.

The letter is there.

He opens it and notices that it’s longer than the others.

He grabs a bottle of water and drinks a few sips as he reads it.

 

_Dear Jaime,_  

_No, I don’t mind sharing – it was a long time ago, and it’s over and done with. Also I always figured that if I ever won one of those concerts meet and greets you give away during gigs I’d tell you in person, so it really is no problem._

_However, when I found out about your music I was sixteen and I was in high school, and – well, I’m not really attractive and I always looked more like a man than a woman, which meant I was having a fairly shit time as a given. Ah, and I liked metal music, which obviously made me extra weird or whatever one would’ve called that back in the day. Anyway, at that specific point I also was coming from two fairly shitty things – I liked this guy who was in class with me and then I realized he was gay when I fessed up, and that was the least bad. Then a few other people started asking me out in turn and I found out they had a bet about who’d convince me to have sex with them first, and I was really feeling like shit at that point_.

 

… _what_ the fuck, he thinks, what kind of psychopaths goes to high school these days? If it was ten years ago – well, he was twenty-four and with two records under his belt at that point, and if she was sixteen… well, okay, apparently the next generation is full of assholes.

He goes on.

 

_I used to spend my afternoons in this used record shop because the owner would let me listen to whatever before buying the albums, and he knew what I liked. So one day he says he has this second record by a new band that he thinks I’d like, so I went next to those players where you could hear a cd with your headphones. And I put it on while thinking_ Kingslayer _was a fairly badass name, and – the first song was_ Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things _and later I read it was about your brother but as it was right then, I kind of felt like it was written for me. If it makes any sense. I bought it without even listening to the rest and I played it so much I kind of broke it. But all of that record just sounded like it was written for me._

Well, _shit_ , given that in the first they had just wrote stuff about Arthurian legends just to make sure they’d sell _something_ since it was the rage at that time and then the second was the one where he wrote a bunch of songs about how his childhood kind of sucked, he’s glad that she could relate, but still, she _really_ must have had a bad turn of it if she could relate to that entire thing.

_Anywhere, there was that line about making armors out of your weaknesses, and – well, I kind of always wanted to try out for the hockey team but there wasn’t any female one, and I never had the guts to try with the men, but then I heard it and I thought it made a good point and I tried it, and they took me, and – well, it made the last two years more bearable, at least when you’re friends with most of the guys on that specific team no one tries to make fun of you. So – that was what I meant. Also because after that I started worrying less about what others thought of me and more about doing my own thing, so – your songs did change my life for the better._

 

The rest is the usual well-wishes, which he does appreciate, but he kind of skims them because he’s too busy wiping at his eyes, and _shit_ , he does know music has that effect on people, he _did_ put on a band because he spent years with a poster of _Arthur Dayne’s Dornishmen_ on his wall after all, and he did start playing music hoping to be half as good as Arthur Dayne was, but hearing that when he just bared his soul to a damned psychiatrist about how _bad_ his sister was for his mental health was pretty much what he needed today. He wipes at his eyes once, twice, and then he tries to reply, except that his fingers are hurting and his handwriting is atrocious, so it’s nowhere near as long as it deserves, but he tells her he’s flattered that he was _such_ an influence, that he’s really trying to not fuck it up and that he had no idea back then that anyone could relate to _his_ personal stuff, but he’s honestly glad someone did.

\--

She writes back.

\--

It becomes the highlight of his Mondays, admittedly – she does send him one letter every week, regularly, and he finds out that she actually was overjoyed, back in high school, when finding out his first album was about Arthurian legends because she’s also a fan. She’s been to four of their gigs, the first was her father’s high school graduation present – she also apparently doesn’t have any other family, but then again, as far as Jaime is concerned, he can rely on exactly _three_ family members one of which is in his band, another is the manager and the third is his _aunt_ , which is probably fairly pathetic.

He does tell Baratheon that he’s doing it a month into the program, but the man shrugs and tells him that if it’s good for his spirits he should keep it up, unless it turns into what his daughter calls _mindless stanning_ , but Jaime has a feeling that this _B._ woman is way past _stanning_.

Meanwhile Bronn shows up to visit two months after he checks in, with guitar and amp with, and then he slides Jaime a stack of burned CDs across the table along with a portable player.

“I cleared it up with your shrink,” he says, “and in theory it’s not allowed, but I told you that we can’t make a decision on the new drummer if you don’t hear them at least, so you can keep him until next time.”

“Christ, _how many fucking people_ auditioned?”

“ _Two hundred_ ,” Bronn groans, “and that’s a selection. I mean, we recorded all of ‘em but I didn’t burn you any of the ones that were absolutely _not_ a match. You’ve got enough of that shit to entertain yourself for the next week or so. _And_ ,” he goes on, sliding him a folder, “is our opinions on _all_ of the selections. I mean, we voted all of the people on those tracks, you can see which ones we all agreed on.”

Jaime opens it and glances at the list. “Not many, it seems.”

“Given that we _all_ should agree, it means we just made your work easier. Anyway, I don’t know who’s coming next week, if me or your brother or Addam, but have your opinions stated by then.”

“Sure,” Jaime agrees, plenty grateful they _did_ to most of the work already.

Then again, he _does_ spend the entire next week listening to the damned auditions. In the end, there’s some five guys that have the seal of approval of the other four and actually have extra comments on the back of the sheet. Fine, Sandor Clegane’s best praise is _he’s an asshole who can play_ , and Ilyn Payne has left _nothing_ as usual, but he can work with that.

Next Saturday, Addam shows up.

“So, what do you say?”

Jaime shrugs and hands him back folder, CDs and player. “I think that it should be down between that Tormund Giantsbane on like, track nineteen of the second batch, and what was track five of the fourth, Arys Oakheart? I mean, they were obviously the best, on which you _all_ agreed.”

“Fair,” Addam says, “but then that’d make the choice fairly easy.”

“Why’s that?”

“Oakheart is – I mean, he’s not an _asshole_ , but he likes to pretend he’s not there mostly for the groupies. Giantsbane is way more laid-back and actually, like, wants to play music rather than party or cash in royalties.”

“Well, then go for it.”

“Are you sure? I mean, you haven’t even heard him –”

“Addam, I think that the four of you and Tyrion are the only people who haven’t let me down somehow yet, I think I’ll trust you with picking the goddamned drummer.”

“Oh, nice to see you being back on the sarcastic side. We had missed you while you were being a complete disaster instead.”

“I deserved it,” he groans, but Addam’s right, he had been the worst mess to be around this last year.

Hopefully he’s getting better.

\--

The next day, he asks Brienne if they can find him that solitary room for practice. She tells him it can be arranged in a day or so and she congratulates him on getting back to work, and she does _really_ look as she means it.

He thinks that her face becomes prettier when she’s not attempting to not betray anything or sound extra professional, but he doesn’t tell her that.

\--

He does write _B._ that he thinks he’s going to try his hand at writing _something_ in the next few weeks, after he gets back in the saddle and tries it out with one damned fake hand.

To his surprise, it’s not _too_ complicated to get used to playing again – he always fretted with the left and if he ties a pick to the prosthesis he can strum halfway decently, anyway well enough to play something not too complicated if he wants to.

The next Monday, he gets an answer where she obviously sounds beyond happy for him that he won’t have to give up anything when it comes to his job, and he tries to remember the last time _he_ was this excited about _his_ own music.

Hell, it was before the last three records.

The ones where the lyrics were pretty much _all_ concerning his previous rehab stints.

\--

He doesn’t go beyond practicing until well after the first time he says something during group therapy – by now he’s past the third month, he hasn’t wanted a drink since he started worrying about writing songs that won’t somehow flow as easily as they used to anymore, he’s cried in front of his _shrink_ more times than he’d have liked, Robb Stark is assuring him that his health is really on the exceptional side given what he put his liver through in the last few years, Brienne confirms him that she threw out some five or six letters from Cersei but he doesn’t want to hear what they were about, and Tyrion informs him that the new label deal is all straightened out and that he’ll have an office to go to when he comes back to the real world, other than his own recording studio. Ah, and they hired the Giantsbane guy, after all, but from what Jaime’s heard of the guy he sounds like he’s a good fit – if anything, it seems like Ilyn hasn’t glared at him once, which is as much approval as anyone’s ever going to get with him.

He kind of itches to be out, but –

No. He’s going to finish the damned thing. He wants to do it right, this time.

_B._ still writes him the notes.

He still answers.

At some point he _does_ write her that he’s kind of afraid that after not writing any music for about two years one of which he barely even remembers he just forgot how to do it.

The next week he gets another letter. And –

 

_I don’t know,_ it reads, _I never was much of an artsy person so I don’t really have a clue of how it works, but it seems to me like you’re worrying too much about it. You have twelve records out, your sales are stellar, you can do whatever you want when you go back to recording and as much as the idiots on_ kingslayers.org _keep on complaining about how long this hiatus is, they will be happy when it’s over. I always thought your music worked out because it’s obvious that it’s about what you love, not about what you think you_ have _to do. I don’t even know what I’m writing or if it makes sense, but I’m sure that if it’s about what you love, then you can’t have just forgotten._

 

She’s – she’s right, he realizes. He’s been trying to think of what might the audience like, or his brother, or the promoters, or –

Everyone but _himself._

He looks down at his stack of empty sheets of paper.

\--

Three hours later, he has _some_ lyrics. They’re corrected to hell and back and will probably be changed in the future, and he can’t believe he wrote a song about his goddamned _shrink_ , but who cares, it’s _one_.

And he thinks he has the right hook for it.

\--

_I might have written a very shitty song,_ he writes her the next week. _Maybe it can be the bonus track_.

\--

_Then please don’t stick it in the Japanese only editions, the owner of my record shop would be glad to find me a copy but please make my life easy_ , she replies the next week. He laughs hard enough to cry, and Brienne knocks tentatively to ask him what’s wrong.

“Nothing, all the contrary,” he tells her, and for a second he thinks she looks exceedingly happy to hear it.

Then she’s out of the door.

\--

The last week before he has to leave, he knows he has to write the mysterious _B._ a last reply, because he doubts he’ll have time to even check the fanmail when he goes back home.

He’s – he’s definitely better off now. He spent three months practicing, so now he can play without a hitch, mostly, and he has a stack of new songs that he thinks the other guys will like, and he hasn’t wanted to drink anything in months, he thinks he has straightened out most of his crap even if Stannis has told him to come see him at least once a month for at least the next year, which is entirely fair as far as Jaime’s concerned.

And he thinks he owes B. _some_ of that, because she _was_ there for him throughout the entire thing and she did lift his spirits when he needed it most, and she _did_ help him get over himself when it came to write fucking music all over again.

Also, she said she _would_ have told him all of that if she ever won one of the meet and greets they always give away randomly to a few people in the audience – he’s done that since they started playing gigs seriously and he likes to involve the fans in the backstage, he hasn’t picked this job to be aloof and just play and go back home.

Fuck it all, he can just make sure she doesn’t need one and maybe he can talk to her and thank her in person.

 

_Dear B._ , he writes, _I don’t know if I will be able to check fanmail in the next few months let alone reply to it, with the new record to write and whatnot. However, your letters have been a fucking blessing throughout this entire stint and I’d be glad to tell you in person. At the next gig you attend that we’re playing – because we will sooner rather than later – if you get tickets show the piece of paper that I’ll put in the envelope to the personnel, otherwise do it at the entrance and you’ll be given a ticket, should they get sold out or something of the kind. If you want to, of course._

 

Then he grabs a piece of paper from the pad, writes down that whoever shows up with this specific piece of paper should be given a backstage pass or a ticket _and_ the backstage pass, signs it and seals the letter.

“Well,” he tells Brienne as he packs his bags later, “it’s been a pleasure. Just, mail this for me and that’s going to be the last thing you’ll have to do for the likes of me.”

“I can only wish most people who arrive here were like _you_ ,” she says, slightly smirking back. “At least you didn’t ask to change me for a man.”

“Why, when you’re tall like one and I get the best of both worlds?”

“You’re hilarious,” she says. “Anyway, of course I’ll mail it. Mr. Lannister,” she says.

“ _Brienne_ , best of luck. You can call me Jaime for the last twenty minutes at least, I think it’s been long enough for that.”

She laughs a tiny bit at that, and yes, she does look _way_ less unattractive if she smiles, and leaves the room, presumably to mail the letter.

Well then, Jaime thinks, time to go back to the real world.

 

**Now**

 

“What, worried that your mysterious princess ain’t going to show up?”

Jaime groans – the only good news is that the soundcheck went through perfectly. The bad is that the entire band bar Giantsbane, who is indeed a fairly laid-back guy who most probably doesn’t want to piss off the lead singer when he hasn’t been working for him for a full year, is goading him about this free pass thing.

“Clegane, you’re with the _former social media manager_ who was famous for handling the only Twitter account belonging to a _metal band_ which replied to fans with _hearts_ at the end of the message,” Jaime tells his lead guitarist, “I think that you have absolutely no right discussing mysterious princesses.”

“He got you,” Bronn tells Sandor.

“You’re still ridiculous, but better the mysterious princess than your bloody sister.”

“Lighten up,” Addam says, tuning the bass, “apparently Cersei owes all of us a lot of money, _retroactively_ , or so said the letter from the court I got this morning.”

“Oh, good, I like the idea of getting _money I was owed_ ,” Bronn says cheerfully.

Jaime is just grateful that Ilyn _almost_ never talks and when he does it’s to speak in monosyllables.

“Guys,” Tormund interrupts, “why are we even goadin’ him, though? I mean, so he’s got fans, so he’s going to meet one of ‘em, so it happens to be a woman, so what? Women can’t enjoy metal, these days?”

“Giantsbane, remind me to give you a pay raise after this record goes out and we start touring properly,” Jaime tells him, and everyone bursts out laughing.

Right.

He _has_ missed this, he decides as they go into the last song they’re going to rehearse.

\--

Later, he goes back to his changing room, dresses in his usual black leather which _thankfully_ still fits him – heck, it’s fitting even better since rehab did put him in much better shape than he was before –, sends a picture of himself finishing to dress to his Instagram account because Tyrion, Peck _and_ Pia all harped at him to use his damned social media accounts, and hopes that the next two hours aren’t a bust and that no one throws them rotten tomatoes when they play the three new songs he decides to sneak into the setlist even if he’s ninety-nine percent sure that most users on _kingslayers.org_ would rather only have the greatest hits.

\--

He’s the first one who’s surprised when it actually goes _great_ – maybe the small venue did help, but the audience liked their new songs, Tormund is a _better_ player than Whent was and he actually followed indications instead of trying to sneak in solos that didn’t belong in the song as Whent used to do, his voice hasn’t gotten ruined even if he hasn’t sung properly in two years bar the usual exercises and okay, fine, he’s _so_ ready to tour again, he hadn’t known he’d have missed it this much.

He’s about to tell the others to go party while he goes to change and goes to find something not alcoholic before joining them when one of the security people comes up to him.

“Jaime?”

“Yes?” He insists for the personnel to _not_ ever call him formally – like hell he needs people who technically work for him to use _Mr. Lannister_ like his father’s employees call _him._

“There’s a woman who came up to us and gave me this,” he said, handing the piece of paper that he put along with _B._ ’s letter. “Is it legit?”

“It is,” Jaime says, “let her in. Same as you would with the meet and greet winners.”

“Okay. Do I bring her here or to your changing room?”

“I’ll just wait here,” he says, wiping at his forehead with a towel. “And you, _don’t_ even try to perch around, I’ll find you later.”

“Fine,” Bronn says, “but we want to meet her, especially since it seems like we still have a job also because she threw you out of your funk.”

“Shut up,” Jaime groans as they all seem to head backstage.

He breathes in, and for a moment he feels kind of agitated because he had no problems talking to her in letters and even sharing personal things, but _in person_ it could become all so very awkward, and he just hopes it doesn’t –

He never finishes that trail of thought because the security comes back bringing someone with, and –

Oh, _shit_.

“What the – _Brienne_?”

For a moment he thinks he saw wrong, but _no_ , it’s her. Still slightly taller than he is, but her hair is loose now, and she’s wearing a _Kingslayer_ t-shirt that has to be at least some five years old but is kept fairly pristinely – it’s a tour shirt from their _fourth_ album, actually, so scratch the five, it’s eight years old –, she’s wearing just the tiniest hint of blue eyeshadow and a pair of dark blue fake leather trousers that _really_ fit her, he thinks.

She also is looking fairly sheepish, but –

“Yes,” she says, her hands sort of fiddling against each other. “I – this is where I tell you that those letters were never _sent_ properly, I suppose. But – before you decide it was completely inappropriate, can you hear me out?”

“… I’m not the most appropriate person around myself. Do go ahead,” he says, moving closer and looking over at her, and shit, _of course_ it was her. _B. T._ , he knows her surname is Tarth, it was on the certificate he was given when he left the clinic, and she’s definitely _not_ attractive, and she definitely _could_ have been a hockey player.

“Everything I said in those letters was true. Which is why I – I might have freaked out a bit when Dr. Baratheon told me that _you_ were checking in the clinic and _I_ was supposed to be assigned to you. And then – after your sister sent that letter, I saw that you were feeling horribly, and I couldn’t exactly come up and tell you, _that_ would have been wildly unprofessional and I don’t know if I’d have had the courage. I slipped that letter inside the mail because – well, I couldn’t leave it on the table, right?”

“No,” he agrees, “I wouldn’t have probably read it.”

“Well, I didn’t think you’d answer. I just was hoping you’d read it and maybe it’d make you feel better, honestly. Then _you actually replied_. I couldn’t believe you _did_ , but – at that point it was obvious I was helping somewhat so I replied again. And – yeah, well, that was about it. I’m sorry, I know it was hardly –”

“Don’t say _professional_ ,” he interrupts her, “really. Please. I can’t give a fuck for professional, and I _did_ need those letters at that point even if I couldn’t have imagined. So you bent the rules a bit, whatever, it was for a good cause. By the way, you _did_ have shitty classmates.”

She laughs, obviously relieved, and damn but _she does have a lovely laugh_ , he thinks. “I did,” she agrees. “And I stopped caring about them also thanks to _you_ , so I guess that if I helped you out now it’s evening the debt.”

“Fair,” he agrees, “but like hell it’s over here. For one, everyone in the band would like to meet you, too, and the backstage tour is the least. That said – shit, I can’t believe I was such an idiot.”

“An _idiot_?”

“You were under my nose the whole time, you _did_ look entirely unprofessional when you noticed I was writing music again and I didn’t even realize it.”

“You had more pressing things to think about,” she says. “By the way, how are you doing?”

Shit, she _means_ it. Of course she does. “Great,” he replies truthfully. “I haven’t even felt like drinking anything since I left. Obviously I guess a lot of people are waiting for the other shoe to fall, but –”

“If you’re talking about what your sister wrote you that time I trashed her letter – sorry, but seems to me like she really should have kept her mouth shut.”

“I like that attitude. You mind telling her that in person?”

“I – I wouldn’t mind,” Brienne says, and what, _really_?

“Seriously?”

“ _Jaime_ , I think we established that I liked your _music_. After _those_ six months, I think I’ve seen enough and _read_ enough to know that you’re nowhere near what she wrote. You don’t look like you’re going to fall off the wagon anytime soon, if my opinion’s worth any. And I _would_ tell her to her face, but I doubt there’d be the chance anytime soon.”

“And what if there _was_?” He asks, almost surprising himself, but – the more he stares at her unfairly pretty blue eyes the more he can _absolutely_ superimpose her on the _B._ who wrote such carefully penned, honest letters, and he thinks he really, _really_ liked that person, and he did like her all right when they had just a professional relationship.

“In – in which sense?”

“In the sense that I was hoping to have your number before this charming evening is over, or am I being too forward?”

For a moment, she looks like she could faint, but then – “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he smiles back, and it obviously convinces her because then she nods and says _yes, of course_ , and his heart maybe skips a beat or two as he moves closer.

He looks at her and at _his damned band’s_ t-shirt that she’s wearing, and shit, it’s not like he’s ever done anything like _this_ because his only _emotional_ bond with a woman was with his bloody sister and that wasn’t fucking healthy, and as for the rest, well, he has fucked (with protection) a lot of very consenting and _not_ underage girls backstage, but it’s not like he’s ever done anything past that, which he supposes is horribly pathetic, but then again –

From what she’s written in those letters, she’s not that better off either.

He risks it – he leans down and wraps his fingers around hers.

“So,” he says, “wanna go backstage?”

She looks down at their joined hands, and then she tentatively holds his left back, and –

“Please? God, I’m so going to faint.”

“I doubt it, they’re all bloody assholes, but I think they’ll like you,” he grins, and she smiles back, and damn but those eyes of hers almost look like damned sapphires even in the shitty venue’s light, and –

_Huh_ , he thinks as he leads her back, _sapphires, why the hell not_. It’s horribly corny and he’ll never use that comparison in an actual conversation –

But when it comes to _music_ , all bets are off.

And they’re _still_ working on the new album, after all.

He’ll see where this goes, he decides, but he likes the perspectives. He likes them a lot.

\--

The album is out six months later.

_Every_ damned interviewer asks him the same two questions. The first is _what is that cryptic song in the bonus tracks about?_

Jaime doesn’t tell them, _it’s about my psychiatrist._ Rather, he just replies, _it’s about whatever you want it to be_.

The second is, _the last song on this record is probably the only love song you’ve ever recorded. And_ Sapphires _is such an intriguing title, but the lyrics are also quite obscure. Can you tell us more?_  

To _that_ , he just replies, _I happen to have a girlfriend and I happen to like her eyes very much. It’s not that deep_.

It’s _painfully_ obvious that no one believes him, and if the others are trailing along the immediately write him off and start telling the poor person a lot of extra-romanticized details that will just confuse them further.

No one knows that he ended up writing it in _half an hour_ after she left the backstage that evening because everything had felt so _right_ he had to do it, nor they know that the first time they kissed was when he actually called her, met her at a small coffee shop and handed her a copy of the damned song not more than a week after the concert, and no one knows that the obscure lyrics are just parts of both sets of letters that they exchanged, of course all very much reworked.

But he thinks he’s not going to share with anyone, and while he avoids questions, he’s already starting to decide at _which_ point of the setlist is that song going to stay for the entire next tour.

 

 

End.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone was having any doubts: yes, _Kingslayer_ is very loosely based on Iron Maiden ie the only metal group I actually do like enough to buy real records (not counting Blind Guardian but that's another problem). The group composition is instead not *loosely* based on them, it's *straight-up* based on them. (Yes, that makes Jaime Bruce Dickinson, make of that what you will.)


End file.
